


she watches her walls crumble to dust

by NoGood_InGoodbye



Category: Pitch Perfect (Movies)
Genre: Eventual Romance, F/F, SlightlyOblivious!Chloe, Soft!Beca, kind of fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-19 00:48:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13693389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoGood_InGoodbye/pseuds/NoGood_InGoodbye
Summary: The girls are all taking turns kissing their second trophy, Aubrey is applauding properly but enthusiastically in the crowd (she doesn’t know how the blonde does it, but she looks rightly proper and like an enthusiastic mother), and Chloe’s squeezing the life out of her ribs, grinning and squealing and laughing in her ear.Or: Beca always knew, Chloe didn't, but they worked it out in the end.





	she watches her walls crumble to dust

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** I don't own PP or the characters. Unbetaed. Also, I have no idea what tense I used for this (hello, not American/English) but this is the weirdest fucking tense I've ever written in??? Or is that just me hahahaha

The first time she says it, it leaves her sitting stock still for thirteen minutes, heart thumping and blood rushing in her ears. 

The first time she says it is sudden, unexpected but expected, as if she had always been destined to say it but never realized it until the words had left her lips. 

The first time she says it, she forgets how to breathe. 

“I love you.”

She says it in the quiet of the early morning haze. She hasn’t slept in thirty one hours, she’s been working on their ICCA set for almost nine hours straight, she’s pretty sure she’s drank her body weight in energy drinks and coffee, and the only thing keeping her going is that she’s a run or two away from that big ass finish before she could _finally_ consider the set finished (not perfect, not until they started rehearsing it).

She’s holding her head up with her fist and glaring at her computer, head pounding along with the bass pumping through the headphones resting around her neck.

Most of the girls had already left for class, Beca had already finished her last exam for the term and had finished her last show at the station the other day before she’d buckled down and gone through her nine hour mixing spree. She’d moved from the couch in the living room to the kitchen island to grab a snack twenty minutes ago. The most she’d gotten herself is her nth mug of instant coffee (she was pretty sure they weren’t working anymore).

She’s startled back to reality when burning red hair bounds into the room and Chloe Beale looks ready to model for Nike.

“Hey Becs,” Chloe chirps before she drops a quick peck on the brunette’s crown as she skips towards the fridge. “How long’ve you been up?”

Beca pauses, hand stilling over the trackpad as her tired thoughts struggle to remember the hours and minutes that had blurred together for her. “Um,” she hums, brows furrowing as she finally settles on, “A while.”

Chloe stills as she turns from the eggs she was making, brow quirked as she took a proper look at the brunette. A long, quiet minute passes as Beca struggles to keep her eyes open, a worried little frown twists the redhead’s lips. “You haven’t slept, have you?”

It’s an accusation, not a question.

A guilty grimace curls Beca’s lips as she nods in reply. The supersenior lets out a soft sigh, shaking her head as she turns back to her eggs. A nervous little knot twists in the pit of Beca’s stomach, the redhead’s silence more nerve-wracking than her usual lectures and passionate spiels. The silence wasn’t as tense or terse as Beca’s body felt, but the brunette couldn’t focus on her work the longer the silence lasted.

Beca had lived a majority of her life expecting to disappoint people—her father, her grandmother, her high school girlfriend, the Bellas—but Chloe Beale was an exception.

She always was.

Chloe was the first person Beca willingly opened up to. Chloe was the first friend she’d ever willingly given her number to. Chloe was the first person who called her after her first radio show. Chloe was the first person she ran to after her breakup with Jesse. Chloe was the first person she ever texted emojis to. Chloe was the first person after her parents’ divorce that she ever wanted to impress. Chloe was the first person she never wanted to disappoint.

Chloe Beale was her exception.

Pale slender fingers tap jumpily on the counter as Beca chews lightly on her bottom lip. The soft sizzle of eggs cooking stops seconds later as cold blue eyes watches the redhead pour the scrambled food into a bowl, the brunette trying to determine how angry the supersenior is and how much she’d have to apologize later (because she couldn’t sleep knowing that Chloe Beale was angry at her. Chloe Beale was her exception—she loved her— _loves_ —her).

All her thoughts were so consumed with how to make it up to the redhead that she nearly jumps as a bowl of eggs is placed right in front of her.

Cold blue jumps to Chloe’s ocean orbs, the redhead’s gentle, understanding smile calming her nerves and warming her from the inside out. The supersenior leans down to drop a gentle peck on the brunette’s crown, sliding a mug of coffee into Beca’s hands as she pulls away and whispers, “Don’t overwork yourself, okay?”

Beca stills in shock (from the gentleness, from the kindness, from the warmth spreading through her entire being), blush spreading as a soft smile quirked the redhead’s lips as she pulls away.

The brunette had been expecting a scolding. She’d been expecting a disappointed grumble accompanied with a creased little frown. She’d been expecting an emotional turnabout that would force her to sleep. She’d expected worse.

Beca feels her heartrate spiking, the _thumpthumpthump_ thrumming in her ears as she realizes that it was more than possible to fall more in love with the woman she fell in love with—her exception. The words escape her before she could even think about it.

“I love you.”

Chloe pauses by the entrance and Beca forgets how to breathe. The air sticking to her throat as the redhead turns back, eyes shining as her smile widens into a grin. “Love you, too, dork.”

And then she’s gone.

And Beca’s left frozen in the kitchen as the sound of her heartbeat drowns out the music she’d forgotten she was working on.

The first time she says it, it’s five months after she first admitted it to herself.

The first time she says it, she finds that she wouldn’t mind saying it again if it means Chloe Beale would give her that smile every damn time.

* * *

The second time she says it, all she can see is burning red and sunny blues as her eyes follow the sweat trailing down tan jaw and her lips curve into the same dorky grin on the supersenior’s lips.

The second time she says it, she’s already been crushed into four group hugs and is willingly letting the redhead get her special, solo turn in.

The second time she says it, they’ve just won their second ICCAs.

She’s on a high she can’t even explain. Being a back to back champion has a nice ring to her resume (not that she plans on using it (she did)).

The girls are all taking turns kissing their second trophy, Aubrey is applauding properly but enthusiastically in the crowd (she doesn’t know how the blonde does it, but she looks rightly proper _and_ like an enthusiastic mother), and Chloe’s squeezing the life out of her ribs, grinning and squealing and laughing in her ear.

The second time she says it, she laughs and shouts it at the same time.

“ _I love you_!”

She’s on top of the world.

“Me too!”

So is Chloe.

The second time she says it, she doesn’t even care if Chloe doesn’t mean it the same way she does.

The second time she says it, she’s just won her second ICCA and is a little high on victory and a lot in love with Chloe Beale.

* * *

The third time she says it, she’s planned and rehearsed it more than seventy times to her rearview mirror (Stacie’s rearview mirror—whatever).

The third time she says it, Chloe’s looking at her with the biggest, deepest blue eyes she’s ever had the wonder of appreciating.

The third time she says it, it’s her birthday (her own little birthday gift to herself, she’d chanted under her breath on the drive over).

Her words twist and fall and tumble past her lips. She’s probably practiced it more times than she’s breathed all day but that doesn’t make it any easier to say.

The third time she says it, she’s kind of crying.

“I,” she sniffs, dabbing the sleeve of her jacket under her eye as she continues. “I love you, Chlo.”

The redhead pulls her close, tucking the DJ under her chin as Beca lets the redhead cuddle her in reply. The two sit and let the soft, gentle music wash over the room, Beca pulling the redhead close even if Chloe’s the one holding her.

“You deserve so much more than just this, Becs.”

Chloe’s voice is almost as soft as the music, Beca burrowing deeper into the redhead’s embrace as she hums, pale slender fingers giving the redhead’s tan arms a gentle squeeze.

“You’re already so much more than I could wish for, Chloe Beale.”

The third time she says it, she says it choking to the sound of Chloe Beale singing her a song the redhead had made for her herself.

The third time she says it, she knows there’s no turning back.

* * *

The fourth time she says it, she’s covered in green and searching for a stupid hat while trying not to get crushed by the hordes of people leaving the auditorium.

The fourth time she says it, Chloe Beale’s holding her graduation cap in one hand and the redhead’s bachelor’s degree in the other, a big ass grin blinding the DJ for stuttering heartbeat.

The fourth time she says it, it’s a whisper.

Chloe hands her cap back as the redhead laughs at her misfortune. Beca rolls her eyes but takes the ugly dumb hat and throws it back on to her head. They stare at each other—smug smile and endearing grin—for a good long minute before Chloe breaks into squeals and Beca can’t stop her smile from growing despite her eye roll. She lets the redhead pull her into a crushing hug and returns the gesture just as fiercely.

“We did it, Bec,” Chloe whispers into her ear, pulling her closer as the pair settle into each other’s hair.

“I’m proud of you, Beale.”

“And I am so, incredibly proud of you, Beca Mitchell.”

The fourth time she says it, she lets her eyes flutter closed as she takes it all in (the sound of the redhead’s steady breathing, the faint smell of vanilla and apples, the warm feel of tan arms wrapped around her waist).

“I love you.”

Chloe’s quiet for a heart stopping beat.

“I love you, too, Becs.”

The fourth time she says it, she thinks she’ll never get the chance to say it again.

* * *

The fifth time she says it, Chloe’s crying.

The fifth time she says it, she’s already mailed her entire New York existence in four boxes ready to be opened once she arrives.

The fifth time she says it, she knows she’s leaving.

She’s already signed the contract to work under DJ Khaled and found an apartment near her not-so-future workplace. She stayed in New York until the last weekend before her contract starts so that she could finish everything she needed to do at her own pace (fuck if she believed that—it was for Chloe. Everything was always for Chloe).

They’re having their last dinner together and Chloe’s been slowly choking up and starting to sniffle for the past seven minutes. She knows the redhead’s trying to be strong for her, but she’s always preferred Chloe just being herself.

She drops her pizza back into the box and shuffles closer to the redhead, wrapping a skinny arm around tan shoulders. Chloe cries into her shoulder until even her bra strap is soaking, but Beca doesn’t mind. She’s a little worried, and a lot in love.

The fifth time she says it, she takes Chloe’s hand in hers and says it slowly and surely—full of everything she’s never said and everything she’s said every single day since they’ve met.

“I love you, Chloe Beale.”

She feels Chloe’s hand freeze in hers.

Warm ocean blue tinted with red meets her steely blue, the redhead’s lower lip shaking as she stops another round of sobs.

The fifth time she says it is followed by the sixth and seventh and eighth.

“I love you.” She smiles softly. “I love you, Chlo.” She leans in and lets her forehead rest on tan forehead. “I am very much in love with you, Chloe Beale.” She lets her whisper ghost over full pink lips.

She stops counting after the fifth time she says it.

**Author's Note:**

> I hate Valentine's day. But because I'm only heartless and not cruel, here's some extra sappy happy for one of the most awfully commercialized "holidays" ever. (also because I was supposed to end it there but Amy's voice spoke to my (lack of) soul)
> 
> x_x_x_x
> 
> “And I thought the hobbit was slow.”
> 
> “Hey, ginger was the one who took four years to figure it out.”
> 
> “You two are children.”
> 
> “We’re together now, so it’s fine, seriously.”
> 
> “How _didn’t_ you notice shortstack pining over you all these years?”
> 
> “ _Amy_.”
> 
> “But Beca said she only realized a few months before me?”
> 
> “Chloe honey, even _I_ knew Beca had a toner for you for forever.”
> 
> “ _Oh my fucking god_.”
> 
> “Seriously? How long, Bec?”
> 
> “It wasn’t that long.”
> 
> “She’s lying.”
> 
> “More than six years.”
> 
> “ _Amy_!”
> 
> “…”
> 
> “Chlo? I’m sorry I didn’t tell you it’s just, I didn’t want to make you feel bad or think—”
> 
> “I am _so_ in _love_ with you, Beca Mitchell.”


End file.
